He rubbed his face again. “I don’t need the doctor.”
His face caught her attention. She leant closer and examined his perfectly healthy face. Aside from his pale skin, he didn’t have any marks on his face. Odd. The footpads, who had attacked him, had beaten his torso into a pulp but had mercifully spared his face. No split lips, no broken nose or black eyes, and no scratches. Even bare-knuckles fighters got punched in the face.
“You don’t have bruises on your face,” she said.
“Exactly.”
She was about to ask him what he meant when the doctor entered.
“My lord, Dr. O’Neil,” Harris said.
Tristan threw a hand up. “Wonderful.”
“What happened?” Dr. O’Neil eyed Effie. “My lady.” He sounded as if he was unsure if he should acknowledge her presence or ignore her for the sake of her reputation.
“I’m fine.” Tristan blew out another breath.
“A concussion,” Effie said. “And a rib might be broken.”
“Let me see.” The doctor started to touch Tristan’s head and nape.
Tristan shifted away from him. “I said I’m fine!”
“Tristan!” Effie shot up, fists clenched. “Enough with your attitude. You passed out, are covered in bruises, and have a bump on your head. Stop behaving like a petulant child and let Dr. O’Neil examine you.”
Silence dropped in the room. Harris cleared his throat. Dr. O’Neil slanted a glance at Tristan.
“Your behaviour is irrational,” Effie continued, ignoring his tense expression. “You obviously need medical attention and a scolding. Dr. O’Neil can provide the first, and I’ll gladly give you the second.” She turned towards Dr. O’Neil. “I’ll leave the room, doctor. Perhaps that would make Lord Montcrest more comfortable. I doubt it will make him more sensible.”
She walked out of the room with Harris without waiting for Tristan to say anything.
